


A Nerve’s Slow Tangling Like a Vine

by Coragyps



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, M/M, Post-Finale, Rimming, Will Cooks, hannibal is a prissypants, will loves him anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/Coragyps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years in the jungle, and Will is still learning how to satisfy Hannibal's discriminating appetites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nerve’s Slow Tangling Like a Vine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem _The Pilot in the Jungle_ by John Ciardi

They settled in Argentina, like the worst Nazi villain cliché.

Hannibal bought them a tin-roofed house, off the beaten track outside of Profundidad, Misiones province. The Urunday jungle crouched around their doorstep, stretching heavy branches over their shoulders like an embrace.

Now, as Will crept into the white-walled kitchen in the half-light of dawn, he could hear monkeys and parrots screaming in the distance, and the patter of rain on the corrugated roof. Hannibal was still sleeping, body curled like a Q around the space that Will had vacated.

That morning Will had been awakened by a dream - not even a nightmare, just a disorienting mash of memories, Quantico and  _Le Quartier Latin_  and his own house in Wolf Trap. He had laid in bed for a while, feeling the huff of Hannibal's soft exhales fluttering through the hairs behind his ear. Will had become accustomed to sleeping with Hannibal’s octopus arms wrapped around him; one around his waist, one over his chest, the broad palm resting gently on his throat – his leg nudged in between Will’s, his face buried in the back of Will’s neck. The whole hot stretch of him pressed against Will’s sweaty back. 

Hannibal always slept soundly, never disturbed by dreams. He didn't appreciate the irony when Will pointed it out.

Eventually Will had decided just to get up and make breakfast. Food preparation was usually Hannibal’s job; they both preferred it that way. Even though the meal was just regular meat - something Will confirmed early and often - Hannibal still enjoyed knowing that his artistic efforts were going to nourish Will’s overtaxed mind and body. And it was possible that Will enjoyed being cared for, just a little. Slightly. Or was learning to, at least.

Hannibal pronounced Will’s cooking “functional,” which Will was aware was not really a compliment (compliments came in the form of _brave, clever little mongoose_ or _my beautiful broken teacup_ ). The only dish of Will's that he really enjoyed was fresh-caught fish, claiming that he could taste the vitality of the sport, which Will was pretty sure was bullshit.

Having said that, what Hannibal could taste and smell was not normal. It was almost as if he suffered from obscure food allergies, the slightest hint of anything setting him off.

For the first few years of their relationship Will had been content to let him prepare almost all their meals to meet his own exacting specifications. But lately, he had begun to take it upon himself to produce food that Hannibal could eat (it was the least he could do, having barred him from his favorite ingredient, after all).

Will set the kettle on to boil, making sure the whistle was silenced first. He opened the wooden blinds over the kitchen windows, looking out at the gentle mist over the trees.

They both preferred to start the day with strong, rich coffee rather than the local _yerba mate_ tea, which had an astringent flavor somewhere between tobacco, tea and coffee. Will had come to enjoy _mate_ later in the day, when it reminded him of his occasional habit of smoking in New Orleans. Hannibal would usually share a _bombilla_ with him in the afternoons.

Hannibal had lately become entranced with pour-over coffee, calling the French press “inelegant,” which was fine with Will since the press was more work to clean. Of course, the art of pour-over was apparently as complex and intricate as any of Hannibal’s murder scenes.

Will did not purchase any of their groceries himself – he was no longer insane – so although he knew Hannibal had strong opinions about both beans and roasts, he remained mercifully ignorant. Once the supplies reached the house, though, Will was responsible for maintaining Hannibal-friendly practices. Hannibal cared passionately about bean storage, age, grinding method, size of the grounds (“the texture of raw sugar,” Hannibal dictated, frowning at Will’s inferior grind), and of course the apparently intricate and exacting process of making the coffee itself.

For years, Will had owned a Mr Coffee and a can of Maxwell house, and never thought himself particularly bereft. Now he groaned at the memory of his naiveté in once offering Hannibal a cup of hotel room brew when they were on the road together. (Hannibal had thanked him gravely, and drank the beverage slowly and thoughtfully. In retrospect, it must have been love even then.)

Will ground the beans as the water boiled. He set out two mugs, the porcelain funneled carafe, and the triangular filters. Hannibal had been secretly filling the kitchen with coffee accessories, which he purchased in Posadas and brought home wrapped in brown paper, as if they were sex toys (and do not get Will started on the required quality and performance metrics of Hannibal’s preferred _bedroom accoutrements)._ First was the hand-cranked burr grinder, because _obviously_ beans must be purchased whole, William, and because Hannibal did not trust a motorized blade to know at precisely which instant he had reached the preferred particle size. Then it was an air tight canister that cost more than Will’s entire coffee budget in a year. “The beans must be protected from the air after roasting, William, or they will go stale and lose their flavor faster.”

When steam was roiling from the spout of the kettle, Will got down to business. He soaked the paper filter, to flush any taste (even though they already bought unbleached, 100% organic filters). Then he dumped in the grounds. He poured in just a little water to let the beans exhale carbon dioxide. Next he poured the boiling water into the long-spouted pot that Hannibal had bought for just this purpose. The next part was the trickiest: he tried to keep the flow steady, in spirals, from the inside to the outside over the grounds. He could hear Hannibal’s voice in his ear, telling him that the correct amount of time to submerge the grounds. He felt like a geisha in an elaborate tea making ceremony.

When he finished, he checked the carafe and cursed. The liquid was too light colored, closer to tea than to tar-black coffee. Hannibal would never drink that. Something – either the texture of the grounds, or the temperature of the water, or the quality of Will’s circular pouring – had gone wrong.

He started the whole process over again – the boil, grind, flush, aeration, and pour. This time he ground the beans finer and used more of them.

The coffee came out amber black and Will sighed in relief. If he’d had to do it again he was switching back to the Mr Coffee.

With a bolstering mug in hand, and the rest of the brew insulated in the carafe, he started on a much more challenging task: the main dish.

The local people rarely had elaborate breakfasts, usually selecting a pastry and the bitter _yerba-mate_. But if Will had slept, breakfast was one of the few meals he would reliably eat, so he and Hannibal usually made a large spread. Most recently Hannibal had been making eggs, fried in olive oil, served with _jamón_ and mustard vinaigrette and torn chervil. Fortunately he kept these ingredients stocked so half the work was done.

Personally Will preferred eggs scrambled with American cheese, but this opinion he did not venture to offer; according to Hannibal he had ruined his palette with years of disrespect and abuse.

Will selected a frying pan (he was sure it was somehow infinitely superior to every other cooking vessel, but as far as he could tell it was just a pan) and the bottle of olive oil. Hannibal, of course, had opinions about olive oil. He taught Will what to look for in the store: dark glass, small container, from all one country, with the shortest transport distance available. Naturally.

He tried to focus all his concentration on the task at hand. Hannibal liked his fried eggs to have a crispy bottom, the whites fully cooked, the yolks completely runny. When one overcooked slightly, Will forked it onto his own plate.

At last, satisfied that he had done his best, Will poured a second mug of coffee and selected two _medialunas_ from the pastry bag on the counter. He loaded the breakfast tray, and remembering Hannibal's exhortations that 'one eats first with the eye,' added a cutting from the passion flower that curled around the window frame.

 

He tried to keep his footfalls silent as he made his way back to the bedroom, where the blue light was shaded by rich ebony blinds. Hannibal was still asleep on their low-lying bed.

Will carefully set the tray of food onto the bedside table.

Asleep, Hannibal looked temperate and harmless; the kind of person who would _never_ threaten to eat Will’s friends and relations. Until Will approached the bed and one malevolent, rust-colored eye cracked open, instantly awake, to regard him. Upon recognizing Will, however, it blinked and softened. “William,” Hannibal acknowledged.

Wordlessly Will offered the mug of coffee. “Tell me it’s perfect,” he instructed.

Hannibal sat up – he slept naked, and Will was momentarily distracted by his sparse silver chest hairs as the sheets pooled sensuously in his lap – and accepted the cup. He sniffed appreciatively, then took a small sip, swirling it around his mouth like it was wine. His big eyes rolled up as he concentrated, examining the bouquet as it rolled over the different parts of his tongue.

“Your finest effort to date,” he pronounced grandly.

“But is it _perfect_?” Will persisted.

Hannibal took another thoughtful sip. “There is a slight hint of oxidation,” he said at last. “Very faint. How well did you clean out the grinder before you filled it?”

Will had not cleaned out the grinder. He groaned and collapsed on the bed.

“It is still very good,” Hannibal consoled him. He stretched, rolling his neck. “I am extremely appreciative of your efforts.”

“If the coffee isn’t perfect, there’s no way the eggs are,” said Will moodily. “You can just eat the pastries, I didn’t make those.”

Hannibal’s hand found his head in the bedsheets, stroking his hair, then drifted down to rub his back through his soft cotton sleep tee. “I shall savor every bite, knowing your hands have made it for me.”

Will harrumphed, but didn’t push away from the pressure between his shoulder blades. He listened to the slight scrape of the fork as Hannibal cut into the eggs. Then the faint wet sound of chewing. “Delicious. I can taste your devotion, and I'm honored by it.”

Will stopped pouting long enough to sit up properly and eat his own share. It was fine, he thought. Not quite as good as Hannibal’s. The amount of devotion versus mustard was not quite in balance, but he was gratified by Hannibal's empty plates. Acceptable, he judged.

He waited in the empty bed, sipping the rest of his coffee, while Hannibal got up to piss and brush his teeth. Watched him walk back, still naked.

“Over,” Hannibal directed, tapping his hip. Will shifted and Hannibal sat beside him, finishing his own mug.

“It has stopped raining,” Hannibal noted. “You will have a good morning for weeding, I think.”

Among his many other improvements, Hannibal had drawn up elaborate plans for the garden around the house – herbs in the sunny cleared area close to the porch, vegetables further out, arranged in grids – but had left Will to do every ounce of the backbreaking labor to install it all. Now he insisted that Will spend at least two hours every day in tedious, sun-scorched toil, stripped to the waist, sweating fiercely.

Will was resentfully aware that he’d never felt better or happier in his entire life.

“And what are you going to do? Head into town?” Will let his drop to rest on Hannibal's shoulder.

“I might. I want to talk to Fabricio about ordering glass for a greenhouse.”

Hannibal had begun to talk of raising orchids, which seemed like exactly the kind of finicky thing he would be good at. Will had heard they would only flower when conditions were perfect, from humidity and temperature and light to fungus in the soil. Will was certain that in short order they’d have the best collection in Argentina.

“Sounds good,” said Will. “Maybe pick up some eggs, if you think of it.”

For years, he'd felt like they needed to go everywhere together, always braced for some kind of blow up, thinking that Hannibal would miss the savagery of his past life. At the very least he'd expected they would need to roam naked through the jungle hunting wild boar every so often. But apparently, if the meat wasn’t human, Hannibal had little interest in killing it himself; he was content to merely harass and interrogate the butcher on the quality, and plan elaborate recipes.

What Will was slowly come to understand was that Hannibal was an artist; what he needed most was to be seen by someone he deemed worthy of looking. His art was now was their gracious life, and Will was the only audience required.

Hannibal leaned over slowly, inhaling. “You haven’t slept well,” he noted, his sharp nose sliding between the strands of Will’s hair to his scalp. Hannibal’s dedication here was no different than his precision in other things. He guided Will forward, licking thoughtfully at the knob of his spine. “You awoke too early this morning, without finishing your REM cycle. Bad dream?” He took a careful, deliberate bite of the lose skin at the back of his neck, tugging gently – Will was reminded of a scruffed puppy – and sampled leisurely.

“You can’t _taste_ that,” said Will, shrugging his shoulders away from Hannibal’s inquisitive tongue. “Weird dreams. Not bad. Quit that.”

“You’re insufficiently hydrated.” He nipped Will’s ear in punishment.

Will yelped, and quickly found himself tipped forward into the sheets with Hannibal’s face tucked into his neck, inhaling deeply. A strong hand rucked his shirt up while another pushed his pajama pants down.

“I must say that the influx of tropical fruit into your diet has done wonders for your levels of vitamin C.” Hannibal might as well sound pleased with himself, since he was the one setting out sliced mango, papaya and pineapple every afternoon.

“This is not really the sexy small talk I was hoping for,” noted Will.

Hannibal hummed and stretched out to lie on top of him like a warm, heavy, restraining blanket. Usually Will would put up some show of resistance, at least for form’s sake, but today he was pleasantly full and decided to let Hannibal demonstrate his gratitude for breakfast. He let himself be pressed down, sighing happily at the damp nudge of Hannibal’s dick between his thighs; he’d be perfectly content to lie here all morning and be humped by Hannibal like a dog.

But Hannibal nuzzled at what he could reach of the stubbled rise of Will’s chin and cheeks, nosing into the hidden curve behind his ear that he usually described as _fougère_. "So quiet today," he observed.

Will turned his head and offered his lips, accepting Hannibal’s tongue thrust deeply into his mouth. They kissed wetly for several luxurious minutes. Until Hannibal paused and pulled back, pursing his lips slightly. His nostrils flared. “You have switched brands of dental floss,” he stated.

“It’s _unflavored!_ ”

“But it is waxed, and the wax has an unsavory quality. I shall buy you a new pack this afternoon.” Hannibal smacked their lips together lightly. “I prefer your natural flavor unadulterated.”

Will rolled his eyes, but buried his face back in the pillows so that Hannibal couldn’t see.

Hannibal moved slowly down his body, tasting and inhaling. He lingered at Will’s armpits (“a crisp and naive aroma” he had declared before, insisting that Will refrain from deodorant and maintain the hair there a certain length). The space between his shoulder blades – “firm and expressive with a touch of oak.” The tender dip of his spine was apparently “supple and transparent.”

Will moaned happily into the pillowcase as Hannibal reached his favorite sampling location.

“Shush, William,” said Hannibal. He didn’t like audio distraction while he was concentrating on a certain bouquet.

Will spread his legs as far as he could, bound at the knee by his pajama pants as they were. He couldn’t help straining his neck to look back; Hannibal’s elegant silver head, shoving ruthlessly between Will’s thighs; Hannibal’s big hands on his backside, splitting Will like a ripe fruit.

"A feast for the eyes, as well," Hannibal murmurred. Will wondered if he would find himself garnished with passionflower next.

The scruff of Hannibal’s unshaved cheek against his sensitive inner thighs had him squirming, but he was held down as Hannibal teased him with soft kitten licks around his aching entrance. Will pushed back eagerly, trying to muffle his groans, aware he was making more noise than the monkeys overhead.

“My beautiful boy,” Hannibal hummed, kissing him softly there as if it was another mouth. Will gave up on silence as that capable tongue bullied its way into his body, hollowing him out. Of all the things Hannibal ate enthusiastically, there was nothing greater than this.

When Will was weeping silently into the sheets, Hannibal finally slid in one long finger. He reached, unerring, for the precise spot that made Will fold inwards with a moan, like he’d been hamstrung, and come all over himself. A few energetic thrusts against his backside and Hannibal followed, soaking his thighs with a grunt of deep satisfaction.

They lay together, panting, until Hannibal wiped his mouth and sat up. "The perfect start to the day," he remarked mildly.

"I think you killed me," said Will, not moving. "I think my brain actually melted and is dribbling out my ears."

"Ah, Will," said Hannibal fondly. He got up, stretched, and walked over to the dresser to begin looking for clothes. "If you liked that, just wait until you see what I'm planning for lunch." 


End file.
